


Lacunae

by anaraine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6623338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaraine/pseuds/anaraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, and the gaps between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lacunae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merfilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merfilly/gifts).



Obi-Wan is not cold, _exactly_. He knows what cold is like, and this is not it. He's... slightly chilled. And possibly regretting the loss of his robe, even though at the time it had been a smart decision.

The blanket he does manage to find best serves Kesi, already asleep and curled into a small lump on the bed, a little hand dangling over the edge. But given everything the child has already endured, Obi-Wan does not begrudge him the small comforts. Rather, he is gearing himself up for a uncomfortable night. But rather an unrestful sleep than no sleep at all - their mission is not yet completed.

He's nearly decided to try meditating when the Force shifts, a gentle nudge that a familiar presence is moving with intent in his direction. It's enough warning that he doesn't startle as Qui-Gon enters the room on silent feet, ducking his head to avoid hitting the door frame. He takes a quick glance at Kesi, but steps toward Obi-Wan and drops into a crouch, his robe pooling around him on the floor.

"We'll be leaving at first light," Qui-Gon says, voice little more than a whisper in deference to the sleeping child. "We seem to have lost Sion's men, but I would much prefer to return to Lord Vikal's residence as quickly as the child can manage."

"Of course, Master," Obi-Wan agrees, though it means he'll have even less of a chance to sleep.

Qui-Gon's mouth tilts into a wry sort of smile, and shrugs his robe off with a practiced roll of his shoulders. "And perhaps you would like this, my young Padawan?"

"Master–" Obi-Wan starts to protest, leaning forward in order to keep his voice down but still express his displeasure. He is _ninteen standard_ and does not need to be catered to like a child. He miscalculates, however, as Qui-Gon drops the heavy fabric onto his head, the hood falling over his eyes as the bulk of the robe slid between him and the cold wall where he had made himself marginally comfortable. The robe is warm and smells like Qui-Gon, a hint of Havao tabac and an earthy musk.

"Get some rest," Qui-Gon murmurs, pressing his forehead against Obi-Wan's for a brief second, before standing and returning to his watch outside the abandoned overseer's shack.

It would be pointless to follow him and try to give the robe back - he knows his Master well enough that it would only be a frustrating waste of his time. It is with an exasperated huff that Obi-Wan shuffles around until he has better covered himself against the cold, and breathes in his Master's scent. It is a comfort, really –a reminder of their quarters back at the Temple, of _home_ – and within minutes, he is fast asleep.

**◊◊◊**

Obi-Wan scowls in the general direction of his chirping comm, but he had set that alarm for a reason. He is not best pleased as he stumbles from bed, exchanging his sleep pants for a more sturdy set of trousers, pulling tunics over his head and belting them properly. He shoves his feet into a pair of boots before collecting his robe and lightsaber, exiting his room only to drop into a chair at the table and pillow his head with his arms. Every second of sleep counts.

He can feel the gentle amusement of his Master behind him, probably drinking a cup of caf. Qui-Gon _has_ to be as tired as he is; they had come in late last night, and immediately been scheduled to depart again in the morning. Obi-Wan had deeply appreciated the use of a real 'fresher, sloughing off old skin and washing his hair with actual soap, but he would also deeply appreciate getting reacquainted with his actual bed. It feels like it's been months since they've spent a proper week at the Temple.

The rustle of clothing suggests that Qui-Gon is moving, but it isn't until he hears the clink of delicate porcelain against the table that he realizes just where his Master has moved. Strong fingers card through his hair, a judicious use of the Force soothing the faint ache in his temples. The slight tug of his hair also serves as a reminder that he never fixed his Padawan braid.

"Master–" It is a Padawan's duty to be appropriately attired, and his braid falls under that. He had been too tired to attempt a neat braid after his shower, but it doesn't excuse the lapse. That he hasn't left their quarters is his only saving grace.

"Hush, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon murmurs, fingers parting hair into three equal sections in a motion both familiar and strange. It's been ages since Qui-Gon has done his hair - four years, perhaps? He is twenty now, and had been sixteen when a broken arm had kept him from being able to braid his own hair. "I find I'm feeling nostalgic."

It's nice, having someone else do this for him. Nicer that it's Qui-Gon, a welcome presence at his side as light begins to filter through their window. The morning has turned hazy and sweet, listening to the Force as Qui-Gon summons the beads and colored threads that mark his accomplishments and does his braid up properly. He doesn't often wear them outside of the Temple. There's no point to it - with all of the scrapes they find themselves in, he'd be replacing beads and threads after every mission. And only the inhabitants of the Core Worlds really understand that a decorated braid belongs to a more senior Padawan. Still. It's... nice.

"There we are," Qui-Gon says, tying off the end of his braid and letting it settle gently against his back. "I do believe we have just enough time to catch our transport."

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan smiles into his arms, and finds himself at peace without the need for meditation.

**◊◊◊**

Obi-Wan had never minded the food served in the refectories at the Temple until he started accompanying Qui-Gon on missions off of Coruscant. The food served at the Temple is plentiful and nutritious, but remarkably bland in comparison to what he's tasted off world. It makes perfect sense, of course: to make enough food for as many people as there are in the Temple every day of the week, things have become streamlined. With so many different physiologies being served, it is far more simple to go with what works than to experiment with unknown foods and potentially discover a fatal allergy.

However, just because he understands why the Temple serves the food they do, does not mean he's entirely fond of it. When given the opportunity, he much prefers to partake in meals outside of the Temple, but that sort of expenditure adds up quickly when they are actually stationed in Coruscant. This past month's bill is enough that Obi-Wan brings up the idea of learning to cook with Qui-Gon.

"I'm afraid this is one area where I cannot instruct you," Qui-Gon says, lips curling into a rueful smile. "But if you would like to try, I have no objections."

"Have you ever cooked before?" Obi-Wan asks, mildly curious. Qui-Gon has never commented on his eating habits, and seems to avoid the refectories with even better skill than Obi-Wan does.

"I am afraid this kitchen has never seen anything more complicated than preparing caf."

"That is not an answer, Master," Obi-Wan says reprovingly.

Qui-Gon laughs. "No, my young Padawan. While I am capable of foraging, I have never found the time to sincerely try to cook. This might be the longest consecutive time I've been at the Temple for more than a decade."

That is certainly true. Even during the times Obi-Wan was restricted to the Temple, either because of injury or upcoming exams, Qui-Gon had been sent off on various diplomatic overtures to planets in the Mid or Outer Rim. They are hardly ever stationed at the Temple for any extended period of time.

"Would you care to try, with me?" It is an offer somewhat hesitantly made; neither of them have been idle this past month, though much of what Qui-Gon has been doing seems to be arguing with the Council. But if his Master is not needed elsewhere, he would be a welcome presence in the attempt.

Qui-Gon's smile softens. "I would be honored."

His twenty-first birthday is spent in the small kitchen space of their quarters, tunic sleeves tied at their elbows as they ambitiously try to prepare a stew, salad, and cake. The stew and salad are much more forgiving than the cake is, but none of the food is enough of a disaster that would put them off a second attempt.

Obi-Wan is looking forward to trying again.

**◊◊◊**

Obi-Wan occasionally despairs of ever understanding the Living Force. His Master is patient with him in this, but it still feels like failure that he cannot truly grasp the tenets set before him. It should _not_ feel like a failure; not all Jedi are capable of touching the Living Force, and at twenty-two Obi-Wan is still very young by Jedi standards. His natural talents also seem to be focused in farsight if Master Yoda is to be believed, and he does. It would certainly explain why he can always tell if their assignment is likely to go sour.

"Patience," Qui-Gon murmurs, redirecting his attention once again. "Breathe in, and _feel_."

Obi-Wan centers himself and extends his senses into the grass beneath him. He has a lot of practice in communing with plant life, the simplest of ways to consciously connect to the Living Force. It is not what he would call easy, but he is capable of picking out the little inconsistencies that indicate other life. Insects, mostly, but he can just make out the presence of a snake on the edges of his awareness.

He tries to focus on listening to the snake –the most unfamiliar to him, and thus, the better candidate for practice– but once again he is distracted by the beacon of his Master in the Force. By all rights he shouldn't be - Qui-Gon is like a still pool of water, reflecting the world around him and easily slotting into the fabric of the Force as if he belonged there. If Obi-Wan didn't know better, he would assume that his Master was native to this planet, but Qui-Gon is like this _everywhere_.

Obi-Wan allows his attention to float away from the snake and focus on his Master, trying once again to connect with the Living Force. It is not invasive, this sort of connection, but it could be considered rude by other Force-sensitives. Qui-Gon likely notices where Obi-Wan's concentration has centered, but other than a peaceful smile curling his lips, does nothing.

The echo of Qui-Gon's heartbeat is loud in his ears, and he slowly changes his own to match. Each breath of air is quiet and shared, the thrum of the Living Force noticeable, but still so quiet to his senses. He releases his frustration into the Force before it has a real chance to form, and tries to sink deeper. A breeze teases his hair, and birds twitter cheerfully in the trees. Qui-Gon nearly radiates tranquility, his presence so at peace that Obi-Wan aches.

He loves this man.

It is a stray thought, absent and warm, but it breaks his concentration entirely.

He _loves_ this man.

The knowledge is a surprise, and yet not one at all. This is not a Padawan crush, or a tawdry sort of lust that could be easily fixed by a night spent together. This is _attachment_ , and the thought should horrify him. It is one thing to admire his Master and quite another to realize he would like to spend the rest of his life with him.

"Obi-Wan?"

"I'm sorry, Master," Obi-Wan says immediately, ducking his head. "I don't think I'll be able to focus at all today."

Qui-Gon does not express any sort of disappointment, or give any indication he knows where Obi-Wan's wandering thoughts have led him. "Perhaps tomorrow, then," he says, and when Obi-Wan looks up, his eyes crinkle with genuine warmth.

It is with great strength of will that Obi-Wan keeps himself from blushing, and resigns himself to a long meditation session later that evening.

**◊◊◊**

Obi-Wan generally enjoys jizz music, but in this case he would much prefer a different selection. An early meeting with Chancellor Valorum has both Obi-Wan and his Master waiting outside his office, listening to the gentle strains of a popular aubade piece. It is sung beautifully, but Obi-Wan can't help but connect this particular romantic piece to his own relationship with Qui-Gon.

It is a silly connection, if he is being honest. He has come to terms with his feelings for his Master, and does not expect anything to come of them. They are both sworn to the Order, and while Qui-Gon may interpret the code loosely and argue with the Council on a regular basis, he is still an excellent model of a Jedi. He would be kind, Obi-Wan is sure, but he would also discourage that sort of attachment.

Better for Obi-Wan to quietly release his feelings into the Force when needed, and wait until he is capable of facing that conversation with a clear head.

Still, as the vocalist sings, notes climbing higher in an impressive display of skill, Obi-Wan idly dreams of an Order where he could admit to his love without censure. Where his love might not be reciprocated, but he could enjoy the rush of fondness upon seeing his Master commune with the Living Force without a guilty squirm in his stomach.

That Order would be a very different one, though. So different that both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon might be entirely changed people. So there is no use in indulging his imagination with that sort of fantasy. It is best to keep his concentration in the here and now, as his Master is constantly reminding him. And he is not unhappy with his life - far from it.

He is meant to be a Jedi, and he is.

He is apprenticed to a man he deeply admires, and enjoys the work they do together.

He may not yet be fully capable of adhering completely to the Jedi Code, but he is only twenty-three. He is still learning how to devote himself to the Order, still discovering where he will best serve the will of the Force.

When the last notes of the aubade piece fade out, the sharp-eyed secretary tells them that the Chancellor is now free. They stand in unison, and move to discuss Valorum's latest request of the Order.

**◊◊◊**

Obi-Wan's ears prick when he hears a quiet groan - not of pleasure, but of pain. He is well attuned to his Master's presence in the Force, but it seems muted now. A conscious effort to keep him from worrying, perhaps?

"Master?" Obi-Wan calls, unsure if he's willing to be put off by platitudes.

Qui-Gon emerges from the 'fresher, long hair coiled into a loose bun and dressed only in a towel, skin still visibly damp, little rivulets of water running down his arms and chest.

"I believe I've kept my hair from clogging up the drain this time," he offers, one hand kneading the muscle at the back of his neck.

"Thank you," Obi-Wan replies automatically, before narrowing his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"I am, perhaps, feeling my age, my _young_ Padawan."

"You are barely fifty-nine," Obi-Wan counters. The average lifespan of a human is close to 120 standard years - and a Jedi, of any species, usually lives far longer than their projected lifespan, provided they do not die while on assignment.

Qui-Gon laughs, sitting on one of the hard-backed chairs and leaning over to prop his elbows on his knees, both of his hands reaching up to massage his neck. "Perhaps."

"Would you like some help?" Obi-Wan offers.

"What I would like is for you to scrub that dirt from your skin, Obi-Wan. You have to be at least as filthy as I was and should make use of an actual 'fresher with running water."

Obi-Wan hums noncommittally, but does as instructed, stripping off grungy tunics and leaving them for the droids to clean. It does feel wonderful to stand under a heated shower, water pounding against his back. While sonics might be more efficient at removing dirt and dead skin, there is something much more fulfilling about watching dirty water swirl down the drain and feeling clean.

There is a new pair of sleep pants on the counter when he finishes, and Obi-Wan slides them on with a little sigh of satisfaction, padding out of the 'fresher to see if his Master has done anything besides sit on a chair.

Qui-Gon has dressed, in fact, in sleep pants and an undertunic, but is still hunched over, pressing fingers against the tight muscles of his neck.

"Master," Obi-Wan sighs, and then steps up behind Qui-Gon, gently knocking his hands away and replacing them with his own. It is not only his neck - his shoulders and back are knotted up something awful, and Obi-Wan is not skilled enough to relax those muscles with the use of the Force. He is, however, quite skilled in giving massages, and begins to coax the knots in his Master's back to loosen and release.

"I– _oh_. Thank you," Qui-Gon murmurs, words soft and caught between hissed breaths and little groans.

"What were you doing to get knotted up this badly?" Obi-Wan asks.

"Perhaps I should leave the aerials to you from now on," Qui-Gon says, a tremor of laughter running through his shoulders.

Obi-Wan would miss it, if he did - his Master is a glorious sight in mid-air, his size and strength always beautiful to watch. Still. "If Ataru is leaving you like this then I would consider using a different form entirely in longer fights."

Qui-Gon scowls. "I am not switching back to Makashi. It's not good enough for the trouble we run into."

That is debatable, but Obi-Wan thinks that his Master is more opposed to Form II simply because it is the form Master Dooku still favors. "Actually, I've been thinking about studying Soresu."

"Oh?" There is a wealth of meaning in the word that Obi-Wan is not entirely prepared to unpack.

"It would be better to know both an offensive and defensive form," he defends himself.

"Peace, Obi-Wan. It is a good idea. Perhaps we'll have time to spend at a training salle with a better instructor in the coming year."

"I would like that," Obi-Wan says after a long pause, shoulders relaxing as he returns to massaging the tense muscles beneath his hands.

**◊◊◊**

The clatter of his boots on the catwalk is almost distracting, a heavy thump and rattle as the grated panels beneath his feet protest. Ahead of him, he can still see his master exchanging blows with the Sith - the crackle of their blades meeting is both a relief (they're still fighting; Master Qui-Gon isn't _dead_ ) and a concern (why haven't they _defeated_ him yet).

Obi-Wan can't help the burst of frustration when the shields snap close in front of him. He watches through a haze of red as his Master deactivates his blade and assumes a pose for meditation. It is a smart move –a way to release tension into the Force and gather strength– but Obi-Wan can not find it in himself to do the same.

He has dreaded this moment. When they had first arrived to negotiate with the Federation - _this_ was what he had been sensing, a warning that had slipped through his fingers like smoke.

He cannot let his Master fight the Sith alone. It is not arrogance or pride that compels him, but concern. (It is not fear, he lies to himself, with a rough shake of his head.) But the shield generators had snapped into place quickly, and there are five of them separating him from Qui-Gon, and a sixth beyond him that surely both of them will cross.

There is a possibility he could pass through them all, but it depends too much on chance. On the shields opening simultaneously and not one by one. On the cycle being calibrated long enough for someone to run through it. Both of those things are unlikely to be true - no matter how sophisticated, multiple shields generally experienced lag. And a cycle being long enough for someone to run through it would defeat the purpose of the shields.

He is a Jedi. He could use the Force to enhance his speed, to sprint across the distance between them to join the fight. But he is already tired, and if he were to be caught by one of the cycling shields it would almost certainly be fatal.

The Sith prowls back and forth in front of his master, a nasty curl to his lips that makes his tattoos even more sinister.

Obi-Wan makes his choice.

When the shields begin their opening cascade, he _runs_.

The world slows around him, his heart a slow and heavy beat in his chest. He meets the Sith's staff with his blade, once, twice, before falling in line with his master and releasing his shaky grip on the Force. It takes him a second to regain his equilibrium, but he has a partner and Qui-Gon steps forward to cover his lapse, a swift twirl of his lightsaber pushing the Sith back.

They fight, and it is exhausting. Ataru is not a form meant for sustained combat. It is a form meant for a quick and decisive victory. That he can't utilize several of its stances due to their confined space is causing him to defend more than attack. He regrets, now more than ever, that he has not spent more time studying Soresu.

It is a seconds reaction too slow, and Qui-Gon takes a hit that burns through his side, the acrid scent of scorched fabric and cooked flesh hitting his nose. Obi-Wan can't stop, can't look, can't do anything but take the opportunity that presents itself as Qui-Gon grunts and falls to his knees, and strikes out to halve the Sith's lightstaff. The blade of the left half flickers and dies, and the Sith tosses it away from himself in disgust, and the fight begins anew.

It is immediately clear that the Sith is more comfortable with a two handed staff, little shifts in his weight and stance that suggest he would prefer to block strikes with his longer weapon than move out of the way. And that is his undoing.

**◊◊◊**

Obi-Wan enters the Halls of Healing with a somber air. Healer Vebbar greets him with a brief nod of his head, but he continues his journey to the long-term ward unimpeded.

It is hard, training Anakin. There is so little he knows about being a Jedi, but using the Force comes easy to him. Perhaps _too_ easy. Obi-Wan spends most of his time trying to corral the exuberant young boy into attending lessons with children that are younger than him, and the rest of his time filing counter reports about Anakin's lack of progress.

He's _smart_. Almost dangerously intelligent. But while he is filled with goodwill towards everyone, including droids, he does not have the core desire for peace that comes with living in the Temple since childhood. It is exhausting, teaching Anakin. But he will never regret taking the boy as his Padawan.

His only wish would be that Anakin would calm enough for Obi-Wan to be capable of visiting the Halls of Healing more often.

Qui-Gon Jinn is not dead.

But neither will he wake.

He remains comatose, cared for in the long-term ward even when the Healers have suggested it might be kinder to return him to the Force.

Obi-Wan will be forever grateful to Master Dooku, who returned to Coruscant in order to make sure that his instructions concerning his former Padawan were followed correctly.

At the time, Obi-Wan had barely found a spare hour to sleep while dealing with the circumstances of Anakin's admittance to the Order and his own elevation to Knighthood. There had been meeting after meeting with the Council, an aggravating repetition of the fight on Naboo and an _ongoing_ argument about whether or not the Zabrak had truly been a Sith. Obi-Wan had no energy left to spare in trying to make sure that his former Master was cared for.

While Master Dooku and Qui-Gon may not have been the most auspicious of Master-Padawan pairs, Obi-Wan no longer doubts that Master Dooku cares for his erstwhile apprentice. Though busy in other parts of the galaxy, it is not uncommon for Obi-Wan to run into him at Qui-Gon's bedside.

"Good evening, Master," Obi-Wan says, settling into a chair and folding a larger hand between his own. "You would not believe what Anakin did this morning."

He talks about Anakin, about his newly discovered irritation with triplicate, about his continuing frustration with the Council. He talks about the droid parts that are starting to spill out of Anakin's room, his appreciation for Master Dooku, his growing skills in Soresu. He talks about everything that crosses his mind, trying to give his former Master something to follow back into the land of the living.

He still has hope.

When he has talked until his throat has gone dry and slightly hoarse, he sighs and moves closer to whisper.

"I wish you were here to guide me," he says, and the words taste like ash in his mouth. "You are right in front of me but I miss seeing your smile, your laugh. I still had so much to learn from you, and..."

A pause. He has never considered admitting this out loud, and he can hardly believe it of himself now.

"I love you," he murmurs, so quiet that he can hardly hear himself. But it is also a relief, to have his shameful secret spoken in the stillness of the ward.

Qui-Gon's hand twitches beneath his palm, and Obi-Wan stares, his heart in his throat.

He can't hardly believe it when Qui-Gon's eyelids flutter open, revealing hazy, unfocused blue.

"Master?" Obi-Wan asks, because it has been over a year, who _knows_ what kind of damage Qui-Gon could still have–

"Obi-Wan," comes the hoarse sound of his own name, the hand sandwiched between his own moving to weakly lace their fingers together.

"Master," Obi-Wan says again, in relief, in delight, in joy, in _love_. He leans over to hit a comm that will call for a Healer, because he doesn't know what to _do_. Should he give him water? Keep talking? Shout for help?

The only thing he knows is that the galaxy is a little brighter, for having his Master awake in it.


End file.
